


write my name on a stone

by pathygen



Series: are we afraid (or are we alive?) [3]
Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Complicated Relationships, Ensemble Cast, F/F, Moondrop | Moonstone Opal (Disney), Multi, Politics, Slow Burn, Sundrop Flower, eldritch horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:00:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22028953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathygen/pseuds/pathygen
Summary: In the wake of her ill-founded attack on Corona, Cassandra scrabbles for a foothold. Rapunzel dances along new lines, personal and political. Eugene tries to find his center. Zhan Tiri puts down roots.Ever afters never are. The future dares us to follow, past victory and defeat. In the end, what really guides the path of destiny?
Relationships: Cassandra/Rapunzel (Disney: Tangled), Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel
Series: are we afraid (or are we alive?) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564513
Comments: 25
Kudos: 168





	1. I. Home, is

For the second time that day Cassandra stands in front of the door to her father’s quarters. The third day in a row. She’d been mostly sure that this time she would knock. The hall is empty; except for herself, and the guards she knows are standing shy just around the corner, listening. Her hand’s right there, bound knuckles against the wood-grain. Just knock. It’s not hard, just do it, you’ve done harder things, worse things, he didn’t raise a coward, just _knock_ —

She pulls her arm back. The cracked skin of her fingertips stand out ash-black against the bandages. 

Cassandra doesn’t know why this is so _hard._ Her thoughts flit vaguely around the holes in her memory, dancing in and out of tunnels like a rabbit in a warren. She’s reminded of the heavy scents of oak-leaf and armor polish; of the small alcove that had been made up for her room, until she was old and brave enough for her own, when propriety and privacy could no longer stand ignored. She remembers.. 

_I always was loyal to a fault._

She breathes out a hiss between her teeth. There’s a nervous shuffle of armor just out of eyeshot that does little for her mood. Fatigue chews at her, nestled in her joints, in the barest tremble of her knees. _Try to stay in bed._ As if. She wants to see her dad; to look —ask—apologize— She just had to find the right way to say it. If she couldn’t even get ahead of this, with everything he meant to her, everything he’s done for her and what she did to _him_..

The door stays closed. When she limps back down the castle’s cold corridors towards her room, clutching at the ache under her ribs, the watchers have already gone.

She used to appreciate routine, in the way that it meant she could see things coming. Learn to expect what people might want and then use that to..impress, or avoid, or prepare. Memorize the guard details, so she knew where and when to be there, and when she’d have to sneak around. The routines endemic to servitude; the washing and the tidying; the seemingly endless tide of needlework circles and the stoking of hearths. Training routines; fencing and acrobatics; snuck in among the chores. Keeping the princess’s schedule. Proving she was _reliable._ And now..

It’s been almost a week since she woke up and Cassandra has spent most of it asleep. Restless sleep maybe, so different to the dreamless, encompassing black that came with passing out, but rest nonetheless. When she’s awake she moves gingerly about her room, re-familiarizing herself with the (weaponless) corners and Owl’s easy company. She dresses down in old simple tunics, and learns that the opal apparently hates being covered and that it will eventually chew a hole through the fabric of anything she tries to cover it with. Every night, she nurses an apprehensive hope of waking up, confident that she’ll be the same person. Whoever that is now.

Not a guard, not a handmaiden. Not anything, except maybe a calculated risk. Rapunzel slips in and out of her space; obviously torn between fear of smothering her and leaving her alone. The servants stay out of her way and the guards keep a harried, distant watch that grates on her nerves. Her father, who no matter what she still can’t bring herself to face. Rapunzel made it clear that she wasn’t a prisoner here, but nevertheless the castle walls press in on her in confining, awkward angles; the damage, the quiet and the cold of winter outside. Weak, coddled or feared, it’s like a return to childhood in a way that makes her stomach knot and her fists clench. And what else can she expect really; isn’t it already more than what she deserves? 

Rest, recover. Do better. She’s being so stupid.

“Crumb-wedge.” 

“..Mrs. Crowley.” Cassandra stares down the small, disgruntled head of staff. The old woman’s glower could cut glass. She tries not to look behind her, at the holes the black rocks left in the vaulted passageway. Some of the lime-washed rendering chips off the wall anyway, maybe out of purely manifested spite.

“Hate the blue. It’s too much blue. You should get rid of it.” 

“...I’ll think about that, Mrs. Crowley.”

Eugene drops down into the chair beside her bed, one knee hooked over the other and precariously balances a tray of bread, cheese and broth in his lap. “So, scale of one to ‘so much, sorry I tried to impale you’, how much did you miss me?”

“Well,” Cass says wryly, ripping a crust of bread down the middle, “You know what they say about absence and the heart.”

“So you _do_ have one. I’m counting that as a _'s_ _o much'._ ”

Rapunzel smiles at them, perched on the foot of the bed with her legs crossed. Cassandra watches her pick at her meal; the same thin fair that she’s been eating out of some pious sense of solidarity. For the past week they’ve shared at least one meal a day, with Eugene bouncing in and out occasionally with an air that says _cool hey I’m not hovering but I just want to make sure everyone’s still alive._ Despite the banter and the shallow conversation there’s a kind of constant underlying tension buzzing just below the surface. A handful of uncomfortable pauses that they fill with the sounds of eating. The snow collecting on the windows outside muffles the sound in the room. She’s reminded strongly of the later months cramped in the caravan, or at least what she can _remember_. 

Again, the thought makes the corners of the lips turn down. 

Rapunzel looks up and hesitates a question, “Cass, have you..been able to speak with your dad, yet?” Her green eyes are bright, and Cass’s traitor heart kicks itself down the stairs in answer. She gnaws wordlessly at her bread. Then, eventually, “Not yet.” She’s still trying to ruminate on her explanation for all the ways she’s likely disappointed him. And for stabbing him. 

The princess, as the last person she cares deeply about that she tried to stab, only tilts her head in reassuring consideration, if not understanding. Eugene says, “I would just rip the bandage off if I were you, so to speak. Well, not the _bandage_ , but you know what I mean.” And the conversation continues like that; strained under the force of this show of friendship. Eyes on her broth and wholly sick of it by now, Cassandra is very aware of the way Eugene sometimes looks at her out of the corner of his eye, guarded and wary underneath the bravado. She ignores it, and if Rapunzel is aware, it’s something they must discuss where she can’t hear. 

Frankly, she’d let him know that she wasn’t planning to destroy them all in a fit of lightning and jagged rock if she was any more sure herself. She’s been awake less than two weeks and she violently tries _not_ to think about Zhan Tiri, with little success. There’s something important she’s meant to tell them, but the thought catches at the tip of her tongue and crawls back down whenever she’s tried to go after it lately.

Mostly, it feels like they’re all just waiting for another storm to break.

Cassandra knocks, and when she steps into the room, her father calls her name, and his voice is full of warm and crucial relief. 


	2. I. In Stride

The antechamber where she and her dad used to take meals together is as roughly spartan as anything she can remember. Everything has its place, from the evenly spaced Corona tapestries to the maybe-in-need-of-a-good-polish weapon racks that hedge the room. Sabers, halberds, suits of armor and shields decorated with suns; it’s a steel mirror of the sheer amount of _stuff_ she’s collected over the years, maybe even less. Gifts and trophies; confiscations, testaments to service and an inherited fascination with sharp, deadly things. As much as she had tried, she never really had been able to mimic his strict discipline; curb her tendency to get carried away in her pursuits. And in the end, the risk of disappointing her father hadn’t stood a chance in the face of ambition. This time, there wasn’t even the easy shield of _doing the right thing_ to stand behind. There was only...

His old armchair stands empty by the chamber hearth and out of habit she takes a minute to re-stoke the smoldering embers and brace herself. On a table beside it lies a heavy ledger stuffed with loose papers; a spot of ink wells up from the tip of an abandoned quill. Cassandra eyes them critically. She’s probably not the only invalid around the castle who’s not very good at staying put. She sighs, deeply.

She can’t keep him waiting forever. 

“Cassandra.” Again, the relief in his voice rattles the very rocky foundations she’s trying to simultaneously lay down and tear back up. Fleetingly, she thinks maybe anger would be easier, but it’s good to see him; talking. Alive. “I wasn’t sure..they said you were awake.” 

The Captain leans forward and coughs into his closed fist. He’s sitting up in bed, flanked by a pile of pillows meant to keep him upright. She’s never seen him as anything other than perfectly clean-shaven, and the scruff coming darkening his chin is almost as disconcerting as his pale color. Sweat beads near his temple. He really had sprinted back to bed— honestly. 

Cass wavers in the doorway. She works to un-stick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. “..Up and moving.” A moment of shared chagrin passes between them. He coughs again, sheepish.

There’s more of that distinctly awkward pause she’s quickly becoming more accustomed to. 

Her father opens his mouth but the words tumble out of hers first, clumsily. “How— how are you?” Cass crosses to the bed and gingerly sits down on the edge, picking at the cover. Neither of them has ever been very good at sharing, and they both make a show of trying to not look like they’re examining the other. The way he holds himself up, the way his shirt bunches around where the bandages must wrap around. Her..hair, her eyes; an even glance at where the moonstone is embedded in her chest, hidden. She’s dressed in the only thing it hasn’t managed to chew through yet; an old beige knit from Rapunzel, with a large C emblazoned on the front. It covers her own wrapped arm, but her fingertips still stand out scarred. 

He sighs and drags a hand through his stubble. “Performing a Captain’s duties from one’s sickbed is about as effective as you might think.” Gruffly, he adds, “A few more weeks of it, the medic tells me.” There’s a drag in his voice that betrays exactly how displeased he is with that assessment. 

“O-oh.” She picks, picks at the duvet. “I’m glad you’re — I mean, I’m not because you’re injured, but—”

“Honey, listen..”

“I’m sorry dad. I’m so sorry.” She cringes, hands curled into fists and bends forward, eyes wrenched shut. It all comes out like a torrent, and she can’t stop it. “I never wanted to hurt you. I should have..should have _stopped._ Made myself stop sooner.” She keeps going over it in her mind; playing through the duel on the bridge. The things she _said_ to him, spat at him, every ugly half-truth. _Sentiment,_ murmurs a voice in the back of her head, and it sounds too close to the demon for comfort, even though she knows it’s not. _You grabbed me, and I did what you taught me._ Cassandra shakes her head again, violently.

“Everything..that I ever thought I was or that I could be depended on me proving myself to the people here. To you.” _Traitor, traitor._ “And I failed. I couldn’t do it anymore, I—” What was a soldier anyway, if not someone who was able to put their own interests and self aside and take orders? Her arm, her loyalty; every little hungry gnawing resentment, the impossible standards. Rapunzel. _Gothel_. She was finally taking what was owed to her; what was _stolen,_ the power to follow nothing except her own will, and fulfill her destiny. “It _hurt,_ so much.”

“Cassandra—”

“I thought if there was some purpose for me out there, a chance at all to make it, I had to—” And hadn’t she failed at that as well? From the start, she had never been free; Zhan Tiri took from her and now she’s _back_ here, with even less. She can’t even look at him. “I know you don’t want to hear excuses, and I don’t deserve to—”

He pulls her into a tight hug. It’s a lot. Pressed to his chest, she can hear the staccato beat of his heart, and knows the angle must hurt. There’s a wheeze, in every other breath. Her eyes are wet, and she hadn’t realized. 

“I wish that you’d told me. I wish that I..hadn’t made you feel that you couldn’t.” His voice is steady despite everything, the gravel in it softened. “I kept things from you. Kept you from..more.”

Cassandra winces, at that, even as she embraces him back. His expectations, higher for her than anyone else. Forced into the position of handmaiden; a _good opportunity._ Her past, that she buried herself, because it hurt less. “You didn’t trust me.” She says. “You weren’t wrong.”

Part of her feels like she’s always been two people. Public and private; ambitious, selfish, loyal. Pulling both halves of herself together, trying to keep one from getting too far away. She can almost recall him, telling her he was proud because she put her passion aside for her friends. It slips and slides through her fingers. 

“I thought I was protecting you.” The Captain says, leaning back. He looks exhausted, and guilt hangs heavy in his eyes. 

“From what?”

“If I wasn’t ready, how could I ever be sure you were?”

 _You could have listened. You could have believed in me._ Would that have really changed anything? _Traitor._ Her chest tightens and they separate slowly, stumbling through this conversation together again. 

He coughs and slowly says, “The princess..she told me..that there was a creature, responsible.” 

She nods, scowling. At least that’s one part of the story she maybe doesn’t have to go into great detail on. Not yet, she’s not ready. There are still a lot of things she’s not ready to share with him. “You could say that. I’m not..” She had tried to fight it, hadn’t she? At some point, she must have. She hoped she had. “She didn’t make me take the moonstone.” That feels important. Zhan Tiri had dropped the temptation in front of her; fed her ire like a hungry flame. She chose to leave, chose to take the opal, to save herself. The wrecked nerves in her arm twinge in admonition. 

A part of her still isn’t sorry, not for that, and she can’t bear to let him know. The part of her that always wanted to leave; to Ingvarr, to..something. A burnt bridge between her and Rapunzel had seemed so liberating at the time. She hadn’t even thought about him. Maybe abandoning family runs in the blood. 

“But it took you.” The Captain’s hand rests heavy on her shoulder and she curls her fingers over it. He fixes her with a look that’s momentarily sharp, and then warm again. Searching. One step at a time. 

Her breath hitches. “I missed you dad.”


	3. I. Safe Ship, Harbored

Life wasn’t fair. That was the first thing you had to learn on the road if you were ever going to get by; that someone was always taking, or being taken from, or losing out. Rocks fell, children grew up alone, and people went hungry while powdered nobles sat in soft houses and got fat off of roast pheasant and bafflingly tiny cakes. So  _ bafflingly  _ tiny. So you learn just what to steal to feed yourself, and dream of piles of treasure so vast you’ll never have to do it again, even if you’re very good at it. (And what’s  _ one _ more trinket; if they were going to miss it so badly, they should have taken better care of it.) You learn how to enjoy being alone, or anticipate being left behind because it’s always been every thief for themselves.

(Or that was what he used to think. Friends don’t leave friends behind; and that strange day sticks with him, and sneaks up like summer wind on the back of his neck.)

You learn to want all those things that other people have, until you change, and get them anyway. Or maybe, besides. Sometimes. 

Rapunzel hadn’t changed him, but he had changed for her. 

Flynn Rider lived in posters and pages now. And Eugene Fitzherbert, well. He was a man who looked forward. If asked now, he could say with confidence that he knew that life shouldn’t be a constant struggle. The future was bright, and filling out. If you didn’t have a past that you could look back on and say you were happy, could you even really call that living? 

Pascal stares quizzically up at him, with way more consideration than a lizard should be able to convey. He doesn’t even have  _ eyelids.  _ Or one..big eyelid, he hadn’t really been paying attention when Rapunzel had tried to explain that. 

“Listen frog, the bad hand that Cass was dealt in this particular situation is not lost on me.” Eugene says. He’s perched on the railing of the barge that now crosses the channel between the island and the mainland; sea breeze weaving through his hair. It smells like salt and snow. Across the water, work on the decimated bridge continues; a weeks long slog. Ships drag in tons of chiseled stone and supports, but the cold stalls the efforts. It’s going. Slowly. So very  _ slowly.  _

“She goes through a spooky door and a demon tells her she’s the abandoned daughter of the crazy lady who murdered me in a tower; I find out I’m the long-lost prince of a ruined and  _ very _ bleak, basically extinct kingdom— but with a living father who cares about me, and who’s doing a lot better on that whole ‘boundaries’ thing. Shocks all around.”

Pascal tilts his head. His scales shimmer bright blue. 

“And Cass’s  _ other _ numerous personal issues aside, said demon apparently got into her head and drove her stark raving mad for half a year culminating in an attempt to kill the princess, along with who knows how many other people. A demon that mind you; is still out there somewhere. Now she’s free and that’s great; I sincerely mean that— but that’s all the more reason to be  _ at least _ a little more,  _ moderately _ cautious, am I right? Comprende?”

Because it wasn’t that he didn’t trust Cassandra now, as he kept telling Rapunzel. Not exactly. Entirely. She’d been through something terrible; all they had to do was take one look at her to see that, and at what she’d done to stop herself from going too far. But he also wasn’t blind, and now that she was awake it was hard to miss the way she..lurked around the castle. He’d grown up seeing people rough it on the streets; in the hollows of the wilderness, in prison. The kind of sharp, desperate hunger and twitch that marked a person who’d lost too much or that said they were getting close to an edge. People who didn’t know if they were coming or going. And it..worried him. A lot. 

And that was..without everything that surrounded the creepy little opal that had the potential to destroy the world. 

“What I’m trying to say is free and..safe are two entirely different things. I know Rapunzel has her best interests at heart and she doesn’t want Cass to leave, but..in the meantime while she’s getting back on her feet, it’s just good for someone to keep an eye out. For both of their sakes.”

He places the lizard down on the rail. Pascal trills in what sounds like hesitant agreement, and Eugene swipes a hand through his hair. “Blondie already has so much on her plate with her parents still out of commission and this is just..one more thing on it. I thought she was getting better about not piling everything on, but..” He frowns and stares out over the water, at the bridge.

A questioning chirp, feathered with exasperation. Eugene blinks and shakes his head, forcing up a chortle. “Wait, what, what? You think  _ I’m _ upset that she ordered us to go rescue the Captain— leaving her to deal with our vengeful, dangerous moonstone-wielding friend alone and unarmed? Pfft, nooo. Don’t be ridiculous.” He flicks his wrist. Pascal lids both eyes and croaks, unimpressed. There’s some movement off to the side and the little lizard’s attention flicks away. His expression brightens. 

Eugene, distracted and not going to take guff from a frog, says, “We both know she can handle herself. We’ve seen how amazing she is time and time again. I’ve got nothing  _ but _ faith in Rapunzel.” She was the capable Sundrop. He loved her, and he wanted to make sure she was  _ safe _ ; simple as that. Not the lock-her-in-a-tower rife with personal issues kind of safe, but the kind where she had to know she didn’t need to try doing things alone; drowning in responsibility. Like sneaking off to face the Saporians by herself, or setting off explosives inside an aloft airship above the city, or running herself into the ground trying to rule the Kingdom single handed, or..sending them all away to face down Cassandra. 

Eugene sighs and taps the side of the ship with his fingers. He keeps his voice low. “Even if sometimes..it’d be nice to be sure she has that same faith in me.” There’s a brush of silence, where it’s just him and his thoughts and the sound of the waves hitting the ship. A little too much silence. He glances down, to the now empty space where Pascal had been sitting. “..Frog?”

Crap, he lost the frog. There’s a brief moment of panic, where he pats himself down and glances feverishly over the edge of the boat. And then from behind, a pair of voices chime in, sing-song. Oh right, his actual errand. Should have known. 

“Eugene, why are you talking to yourself?” Catalina smiles, holding up her empty palms, cupped. With a shimmer, Pascal sheds his camouflage, and sits there, pleased and chirping. 

Kiera, standing next to her sister folds her arms and watches him with a grin. “Are you gonna start doing that thing your dad does? Will you also start talking to birds?”

“Do you already talk to birds? You can level with us.”

“We won’t tell.”


End file.
